Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
As much as his logical mind screamed, “Don’t trust her.
Beautiful women can’t be trusted!” his instincts took up her cause with gusto.
What would she gain from cutting the painting to pieces?
She didn’t know the person in the portrait, and she certainly didn’t have a reason to slash it to ribbons.
Not like he did. Staring down at her now, her face pale and her eyes glittering with unshed tears, he admired her strength.
Once again, he’d acted the utter ass by accusing her of something she hadn’t done.
A muscle clenched in his jaw.
He’d called her motives and morals into question, and while he didn’t know much about her, he couldn’t picture her slashing a stranger’s portrait.
She didn’t do it.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
When would he get things right with her?
Why did he lose all reason whenever she was involved? Yes, she’d lost her glove. Yes, she appeared preoccupied in the hallway. No, he didn’t know her well, but her explanation made sense, didn’t it?
Someone could steal the glove and plant it at the scene of the crime.
A knock sounded at the door, and Logan bid entry.
Two men staggered through the door under the weight of the largest portrait Haven had ever seen.
As the men attempted to gently lay the painting down on his desk, she rose to her feet, unable to fight back the curiosity banging against the bars of her mind.
If she was going to be blamed for vandalism, she was damn well going to see it.
Before the men left, another one arrived. He held pieces of the portrait in his hands, and carried them as he would his own newborn baby. He laid the pieces beside the ornate frame, bowed to Logan, and left the room with the other two in tow.
Logan walked behind his desk and stood staring down at the ravaged painting. His expression unreadable.
She stepped forward, but stopped.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Maybe I should just walk away and leave him to his…whatever this is.
She turned to the door, but his voice startled her.
“Don’t go.”
She planted her feet and waited for him to continue.
Confusion and anxiety coursed through her, pushing her heart into her belly. He picked up one of the pieces, and peered down at it like it was made of precious stones. Adoration brightened his face.
She should’ve left, should’ve ignored him when he called her back.
Uncomfortable, but still eager to prove her innocence—for the second time in three days—she blurted, “I didn’t do it.”
She expected him to glare down at her and growl, but he whispered, “I know.”
She raised her eyebrow in surprise. “If you know I’m innocent, why did you tell me to stay?”
Inquisitiveness slew the feline....
He looked up at her, and their gazes met over the desk.
“I need to apologize.”
She sighed. As much as she’d love to rub her innocence in his face, she felt sorry for him. For his loss.
“There’s no need to apologize. This painting obviously means a lot to you. If I were in your shoes, I’d be just as ready to jump on any scrap of evidence, and burn the first suspect at the stake.”
A look of shame flitted across his face. “I did that, didn’t I?”
She nodded, smiling crookedly.
His eyes twinkled with amusement, and then darkened with wicked intent.
Replacing the painting scrap on the desk, he came around and stood before her.
The room shrank.
Taller and much broader than her, he dwarfed her, but holy shit, she liked it.
He took her hands and placed her trembling fingers against the hardness of his chest.
“Well, allow me to make a proper apology.”
When he spoke, his voice rumbled, and even sexier than that, she could feel his heartbeat, strong, and accelerating. How could something as physiologically necessary as a heartbeat be such a turn on?
He was just as affected by her closeness as she was his. Maybe if she looked anywhere but at him it wouldn’t get so hot in her dress.
She turned her face toward the door but gasped when rough, firm fingers gripped her chin.
With a gentle pull, he brought them face to face.
His lips were so close she could almost taste them.
Damn, she wanted to. Still fearful of her incredible hunger, she let him maneuver her face, but she still refused to look him in the eye.
With one hand on her chin, and the other holding her fingers to his chest, he waited.
What was wrong with her? She’d never felt so vulnerable before.
Or so damn achy.
It was like she’d developed a fever of 104, her whole body on fire. Nothing could douse the flames ravaging her except his hands on her tits, and his mouth on her neck.
She fought back a moan.
She heard him breathing, but he didn’t say a word. Seconds passed, and still nothing.
What was he doing?
She couldn’t wait a second longer.
Taking a deep breath, and met his gaze.
Hot damn.
His grip on her chin tightened, and she was well and truly ensnared.
His obsidian eyes burned with desire, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
He trembled with obvious restraint, and she appreciated his strength and self-control, but what would it be like if he threw off the guise of duke, and bared himself as a man—a mind-blowingly sexy man with a touch worthy of worship?
Yes, she was going to Hell for blasphemy, but she’d damn well enjoy every second of it.
A crackle and pop from the fireplace startled her. Like a splash of cold water in a sauna, she used the cool dash of reality to summon her logical mind back from where it sat to play Scrabble with her long-departed modesty.
Apparently, explosions of fire and ash worked on hardwired, hot-bodied dukes as well.
He released her, took a step back, and breathed deeply.
Why did she miss his touch already? The intimacy of his hand on her face was a delicious and addictive feeling.
“Miss Edwards, I am ashamed of my behavior. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you with disrespect. My aunt will draw and quarter me when she finds out.”
Haven laughed.
His eyes darkened further.
“Well, in an effort to show you I’m not as evil as you think, I promise not to tell her.” She choked on a giggle at his relieved expression. Why did she keep laughing? Did his big, hot, oh-so-delectable body turn her mind to pudding?
The situation could only get worse.
He smiled.
Or better....
His unexpected but utterly swoon -worthy grin completely transformed his face.
His brooding brow and the hard line of his cheeks softened, and his entire countenance brightened.
Dear God, he was beautiful. His sexy grin turned her insides to butter.
His twinkling black eyes propelled the heat rising within her right to her core.
Like a cruise missile fired at an enemy vessel, it was going to hit right on target and make the whole damn ship explode.
He hadn’t smiled at her once since she’d arrived. At least not a real smile. Maybe he had a glass face, and any sharp, abrupt movement would shatter it to pieces. He’d brooded, glared, and even pierced her with his gaze four or five times a day, but not one single sincere smile.
She pulled her fingers from his grip, and turned to survey what remained of the painting.
Before its mutilation, it was a beautifully wrought piece of art.
She could make out a wall of mirrors behind a red velvet upholstered high back chair in the background.
Someone sat in the chair, but that was where the slicing and dicing had done the most damage.
Someone poured their rage to the portrait, especially the face.
She picked up a piece of canvas and turned it over. She gasped. It was a small, beautifully painted section of a young woman’s face. She had deep blue eyes, flawless, ethereal skin, and rich chestnut brown hair shining in the rays of an adoring sun.
It took her breath away.
“She’s beautiful. Who is she?”
He furrowed his brows and tightened his jaw.
After moments of tense silence, he answered, “I don’t want to talk about her.”
His voice was hollow and pained.
Was the woman in the portrait that important to him? His wife? Had she died? Was the portrait the last surviving image of the woman he loved? No wonder he was upset.
A strange depression settled over her, and she sighed.
Time to call it a night. She needed to get to her room, crawl into bed, and try not to relive the last five minutes over and over again in her dreams.
“Thank you for such a lively and unforgettable evening, Your Grace. I think I’ll go upstairs now.”
Turning to make her way to the door, she caught a flash of disappointment on his face.
His lips pressed into a thin line on his stony face.
What was that about?
“Goodnight, Miss Edwards. Sleep well.” His dark gaze never left her face.
Sleep well?
Like hell.
Flutters of awareness flit through her belly.
She gathered her skirts, and walked calmly from the room, leaving a hot and bothered duke standing beside the ruined portrait of the woman who still owned his heart.